


Lay Your Own Ghost to Rest

by GuardianLioness



Series: Young Justice Platonic Soulbond AU [8]
Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: And Subsequent Resurrection, Familial Relationships, Gen, Glitchy Bond Marks, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulbond AU, Reconciliation, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianLioness/pseuds/GuardianLioness
Summary: Jason Todd is a dead man walking, and whatever cosmic fluke left him brain-dead but breathing forgot to cut his connections both ways.Gen/platonic soul mark AU in which individuals have marks for everyone vitally important in their lives.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd
Series: Young Justice Platonic Soulbond AU [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1007262
Comments: 13
Kudos: 156





	Lay Your Own Ghost to Rest

Hostage negotiations, typically, occur on neutral ground. Neutral ground, or, if you’re feeling retro, a cut-and-paste letter in an unmarked envelope.

That’s the code of conduct, the basic rule set for ransom tactics. A criminal standard. From petty thief to Lex Luthor, the idea is pretty frickin’ universal. Anything else consists of a serious, _serious_ breach in etiquette.

Which is rich, frankly. Because in Jason’s tragically interrupted life, he’s never met anyone that can rival Alfred’s keenness for educated and conscientious manners.

“What’s so bad about the library, Al?”

The words tumble over each other, rushed and breathy in a way that makes him wince. He pulls the burner phone away from his ear, eyes squeezed shut, as he tries to still the twisting anxiety in his gut.

This is stupid. So stupid. And Jason is stupid for falling for it. For allowing himself believe, even for a second, that Alfred will stride up to the apartment, a tupperware full of cookie hostages in his arms.

It has to be a trap. Jason tried to off the new Robin. All of their ties are severed.

That, and they’re not even bonded anymore.

Jason got a good enough look at his mark on someone else when Dick’s suit tore underneath the polished blade of his League-issue dagger. It was devoid of light. Dead. Just like him.

Alfred’s copy must be the same. The once-bright red now a diseased, lifeless color. Permanently fixed, like a brand, onto skin.

The sick joke **—** the misshapen, rotten cherry on top of the rancid cake **—** is that Jason still glows like a star going supernova. Whatever orchestrated the big, cosmic fluke that left him brain-dead but breathing for Talia to find forgot to turn off the lights. To cut their connection both ways.

Dick’s blue and Alfred’s hazy gray still gleam with life. Even Bruce’s jet black mark still emanates with its contradictory, white radiance.

“The library is not an appropriate place for afternoon tea, Master Jason.”

“Oh, so it’s afternoon tea now?” His voice lilts upward, like he’s amused, but his palms are slick with sweat.

“It would be poor form to simply greet you and leave.”

Every warning flag waves unmistakably red. Stuck in a secluded place at a set time. Away from civilians who could be injured in a fight. Cut off from escape routes. Easy pickings for Batman and his flock.

There’s a gross unfairness to it. Yeah, he still uses the guns, but he hasn’t fired a fatal shot in six months. The Gotham rules stand unchallenged **—** at least, they do now that the green haze has lifted and his molten rage has been tempered into something precise and targeted.

But it’s Alfred. Alfred, who never raises his voice. Whose criticisms come only as gentle corrections. Who, on good days, reads Shakespeare aloud in the library.

Alfred, who always bakes a batch of Jason’s favorite cookies as a peace offering.

“ **…** Tea it is, then, Al. You got a pen for my address?”

*

The rag from his gun-maintenance kit, though freshly washed, is not as effective as Jason hoped. He runs it across the windowsill one more time, aiming to pick up the last of the dust. No dice. He sighs.

There’s no time to find an alternative, because just as he’s frowning at the scrap-fabric, the doorbell rings. Balling it up, he wedges it in the pocket of his jeans and tugs on the collar of his leather jacket to draw it closer around his shoulders. Then, he reaches for the door.

He’s a moron for not wearing his helmet. If a trap’s going to be sprung, he’ll want something to shield his skull. But even though the manor’s rules no longer apply, the idea of meeting Alfred **—** in a living space no less **—** with a mask on is still unthinkable.

The door swings open with a long creak on its aging hinges, and Jason’s brow furrows in confusion. Standing before him, a little grayer and a little thinner, but still unmistakably the same, is Alfred. He’s carrying a plastic container and is dressed in the same dark suit as always.

“Hello, Al.” The words ring with the after-echo of a question. One he doesn’t quite know how to voice.

“Master Jason.”

Alfred’s eyes are fixed on him. Fixed, and far away. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d think they were wet.

Stepping aside, he gestures the man into the apartment. “You don’t need to call me that anymore,” Jason says, leading the way toward the kitchen.

It’s shameful to show the place to Alfred,. The dingy little kitchen with peeling linoleum, an old gas-burner stove, and scratched counters leaves much to be desired, especially in contrast to Wayne Manor’s new appliances and granite installations. At least it’s clean. Or, as clean as Jason could make it in the time provided.

“No, young master, I don’t.”

That declaration made, Alfred sets the tupperware down next to the two mugs that Jason retrieved from the cabinets before tackling the dusting. At the time, he’d wondered why he bothered. But as Alfred reaches for the kettle that had taken him a full fifteen minutes to dig out from behind the pots and pans, Jason exhales in relief.

A moment later, the kettle is on one of the blackened stove burners, hissing, but not yet whistling. The tupperware’s plastic lid is removed, and Jason, moving automatically, lays some cookies out on a plate in as artistic a fashion as he can manage.

It’s been years since he’s helped Alfred set up tea, but the action is unavoidable. The motions and gestures are akin to a compulsion, gnawing at him until he complies. Guess it’s true, old habits are even harder to kill than vigilante-hero kids.

“Are they the same?”

Alfred lets out a chuffing laugh, one that’s amused and frustrated, like Jason is still the snot-nosed little kid that Bruce fished from the gutter. “I have the recipe memorized. Important things are not so easily lost.”

They don’t speak again until they’re sitting opposite one another in mismatched chairs at the uneven, faded table squeezed in between the pantry and the living room. Vapor curls from the two mugs, and from the rich scent alone, Jason can tell that his tea has been prepared exactly the way he likes it. With a touch of milk, like a heathen.

The cookies sit untouched between them. He’ll have one, yeah, but **…** not yet. They might be drugged. Something to make him sleep.

Jason takes a long swig of his drink and lets the warmth seep into his chest, then sighs.

“I know you’re not here to see me, Al.”

Alfred takes a slow sip of his own, and his eyes flick down to study his tea for a moment. “On the contrary. I have no other reason to visit the Bowery on a Sunday afternoon.”

Fingers tightening around the ceramic, Jason sits up straighter in his chair. The forced slouch **—** a typical attempt to appear at ease **—** vanishes in an instant. The familiarity is wrong. Wrong, when they are no longer tied together.

And Jason needs proof of it. If only so he can lay his own ghost to rest.

He sets the cup down, pushes it away. Counting as he breathes, clenching his fists so that his hands can’t shake, he meets Alfred’s gaze.

“Can I see it, Al? I **…** know it’s dead.”

There’s a soft click as Alfred sets his mug down on the table. He folds his hands, as if contemplating.

“No, Master Jason. I am not in the habit of telling lies. Least of all to you.”

The beat of silence is followed by a laugh. An acrid, sour sound that tears from Jason’s throat with a ferocity that takes even himself aback. “It’s a mark, Alfie. It can’t lie.”

“A dead mark,” he says, pausing, and then swallowing once before he continues, “indicates that time in one another’s lives has come to an end. It is finality. Permanence in passing from one world to the next.”

“I’m aware,” Jason says bitterly.

“But you, young master, are here. Walking, breathing **—** in this world. As long as that is the case, I have no choice but to regard my faded mark as a blatant falsehood.”

A knot gathers in Jason’s throat, pressing against his windpipe, leaving him short of air. Heat pricks in the corners of his eyes, and his nails press into his palms, leaving neat red crescents in his skin. “Don’t, Al. Just don’t. That’s not a promise you can keep.”

“Perhaps not.” There’s a twist and wrench in Jason’s stomach as the words leave Alfred’s mouth **—** “However, I can promise you that it is a task I wish to undertake.”

“I’ll disappoint you.”

“And you will, occasionally, also be disappointed in my behavior.” Alfred’s precise diction blurs, strains. “That is, as I understand it, what it means to belong to one another.”

The last time Jason stood at a crossroads, split between a bond and the unknown, he’d chosen wrongly and walked into his own grave. And this time, Alfred’s the one calling out to him.

Does he fear this, or want it? To belong somewhere that isn’t six feet under? If he turns Alfred away, chooses the unknown once more **—** will he always wonder?

“Alright. Alright. But this is officially your idea, Alf.” Jasonruns a hand through his hair, sweeping back the white strands that fall against his face. “So don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I’m not responsible if he’s unhappy about it.”

“I will keep that in mind, Master Jason.” The corner of Alfred’s mouth quirks up, the sly edge of a restrained smile. “And I assure you that despite his role as my employer, the master is not entitled to details regarding my personal life.”

Jason blinks. “You’re not gonna tell him?”

The restraint vanishes, and his smile becomes a full smirk. “The master cannot protest if he is unaware.”

“Isn’t that the truth!” A laugh **—** a real one, this time, bubbles up from Jason’s stomach as he grabs for a cookie. He pops the entire thing into his mouth and exhales through his nose, choking back a snicker at the mildly disgusted look on Alfred’s face.

“Quite.” The creases in Alfred’s forehead are, for once, out of amusement instead of concern. “Now, tell me, Master Jason, what have you been reading as of late?”

“You’re gonna be proud of me, Alf, because I finally got through Atlas Shrugged.”

Falling back may not be right. The marks may be the ultimate arbiter of Jason’s future and fate. But for now? Screw it. There has to be more to life than hollow wandering and blood. And he’s had enough blood to last both of his lifetimes.

*

When the sun finally obscures itself behind the skyline and plunges toward the smoke-hazed, Gotham horizon, Alfred pushes back in his chair and stands. All it takes is that single motion for the knot to reemerge, pressing down on Jason’s windpipe like a perfectly executed choke hold. The force of it makes his eyes water.

They track to the kitchen, setting the mugs on the counter near the sink. In silence, Alfred transfers the few remaining cookies from the plate to one of the apartment’s ratty, plastic containers as Jason hovers at his elbow.

There’s nothing he can do to help, but there’s a residual magnetic draw. The instinct to pass a spoon or measuring cup before it’s needed. Old habits.

Once Alfred is finished, he collects the tupperware and slowly heads for the entryway.

The asphyxiating knot doesn’t let up as they get closer to the door. It curls against Jason’s trachea, then seizes as Alfred turns to him with damp eyes.

“Good to see you, Al,” Jason forces out. And he means it. Genuinely means it.

“My boy **—** ” Alfred’s voice catches.

The knot constricts. Breath rattles as the gap closes between them.

A handshake is a far cry from the crushing hug that a younger Jason would have once demanded, but Alfred meets him where he is. Their palms connect, and Jason is hit with a wave of vertigo that makes the world blur around him as grayed light obscures his vision. And then he. He feels it.

It’s a faint echo. A faded replay of something that was once far more intense, but is still overwhelming.

It’s understanding. _Their_ understanding.

They speak the same language. One of history and literature, of long sacrifice and thankless work. Shared knowledge.

They are in on the same secret. Co-conspirators. As they have been ever since the day Jason’s mark first lit up red.

Then, the world rights itself. “Holy **—** ” he catches the curse before it can slip through his teeth. “What was that?”

Bond marks don’t activate twice, but the sensation is the one that he’s never been able to forget. And given the tears that trail softly down the man’s slightly hollowed cheeks, whatever he felt was familiar too.

“To me, Master Jason? A gift.”

Jason only hesitates a moment before pulling him into a hug, and for an instant, he’s young again. Young and brave and sound.

Because this is a promise. A promise that makes him choke even as his heart burns with relief.

It is a promise that even when the night falls over the city, when the apartment is silent and darkness falls over it like a shroud, or when the green Lazarus light threatens to blot out the world **—** even then, Jason is not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, it’s been a while! Happy 2020!
> 
> I didn’t mean to leave this series dormant for so long, but in the meantime, I’ve been binge reading main DCU/Comics continuity and loving it a lot! So I’m officially announcing that this series will only be canon-compliant- _ish, and it will mainly be so up to S2 of Young Justice. S3 isn’t to my personal tastes, so there will be some divergence after the Reach incident._
> 
> _This fic was written thanks to the request of a commenter who has since deleted their account. If you’re still reading anonymously, thank you for recommending Jason to me as a character!_
> 
> _Concept beta reads/feedback byBlacknovelist! Thank you, dear friend!_


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